


Wind-blown Sparks

by teaberryblue



Series: Sparks & Stripes (Earth-3490) [1]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Iron Man (Comic), Marvel 3490
Genre: 890fifth, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always-A-Girl Tony, Chronic Pain, Drug Addiction, Drug Detox, Earth-3490, F/M, Genderswap, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Man#182, Nausea, Recovery, Sickfic, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She couldn't remember who found her, except that she was pretty sure it was a police officer and she was pretty sure he didn't recognize her.  Rhodey was the one who came to the hospital, whose phone number she might have given them when she’d still been in a delirious haze, hopped up on so much Über that she hadn't felt herself slowly freezing to death.</p><p>Written for Round 8 of the 890 Fifth prompt community on Tumblr: "Leaving Home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wind-blown Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> I've made up a little of my own 3490 backstory, but the background for this specific story pretty well follows the Iron Man comics. 
> 
> The most significant change is that Natasha is addicted to a synthetic drug called Über, rather than an alcoholic.
> 
> Thank you to my lovely betas, TheLiterator, Bragi151, and arukou!

Rhodey found her.

Well, no. She couldn't remember who found her, except that she was pretty sure it was a police officer and she was pretty sure he didn't recognize her, not that there was much left to recognize. Rhodey was the one who came to the hospital, whose phone number she might have given them when she’d still been in a delirious haze, hopped up on so much Über that she hadn't felt herself slowly freezing to death. 

When they’d asked her who they could call, she’d asked them to call her mother. She hadn’t believed them when they said her mother was dead. She’d screamed at the nurse, and thrown her juice bottle at the orderly. With that much Über in her veins, it was lucky she hadn't hit her mark-- as it was, the force dented the wall.

So Rhodey showed up, eventually. 

“Hey, Iron Man,” she singsonged at him, grinning widely. 

“They wouldn’t let Iron Man come,” Rhodey replied. “Had to be someone with proper identification, remember?” 

He pulled a chair up next to the bed, frowned at the IV. “What are they giving you?” he asked.

“They said I’m dehydrated,” Natasha replied. “Isn’t that funny? I've been drinking fake super soldier serum like it's water, and I'm dehydrated. And painkillers, because...because they say I've been self-medicating for pain and I need to taper...And something about antibiotics, because...because...I have an infection in...somewhere..."

She couldn’t remember. She started to cry. Rhodey scooted his chair over, and held her head in his hands, and later on, she was pretty sure she recalled propositioning him, but he didn’t have a witty comeback, for once. He just held her and stroked her hair. 

When she burst into tears again at the little meal that came for her on a tray with apple juice in a box and a sippy straw like she’d had as a kid, Rhodey offered to go get her fries from McDonald’s. Her tears dried right up; she laughed and told him, no, it was happy crying. She drank all of her juice and made slurping sounds, and ate her grilled cheese and her chocolate pudding and even tasted the creamed spinach.

“Taste this,” she sang, pointing at it with her plastic spoon. “Taste it; it’s the worst.” 

“So you want me to suffer with you?” Rhodey asked, laughing and waving it away. 

Eventually, Natasha got her way and Rhodey tasted the spinach. 

“You’re right,” he said, spitting it into a napkin. “I need something to chase that with.” 

She kindly offered him a sip of her juice. “Like butts, am I right?” 

“Tash?” Rhodey said. “I don’t wanna know whose butts you’ve been licking.” 

The day after that, she must have been hallucinating or something, and tried to climb out the eighth-floor window, so they put her back in observation while she promised, promised, promised them she wasn’t suicidal. 

When they let her out, Jarvis was there, looking dour in that way he always did when he was trying to mask concern. 

“What’s the matter?” Natasha asked. “You’re not gonna try to resign again, are you?” 

“No, Miss,” Jarvis answered kindly. “I’m merely filling Mister Rhodes’ place while he takes a much-needed respite.” 

Jarvis also snuck her a chocolate bar and a few magazines. She pretended to do the crossword puzzle while she crossed out every mention of Obadiah Stane and replaced his name with “Baldy McFuckhead.”

She tried to eat the chocolate, but felt sick after one square, so she hid it under her pillow. 

“Miss,” Jarvis asked her, when she’d gotten bored with her magazine, “it occurs to me that you may have some friends who might be apprised of your whereabouts.” 

Natasha shrugged. “Nobody who needs to be bothered.” She tried to sound like she really believed it, tried to sit up straight and smile. She might as well get used to the truth now.

"Some of them may want to be," Jarvis pointed out mildly. 

She glowered at him. "Don't you dare, Jarvis," she said. 

She didn't want to scream at Jarvis. She'd done that once, and he'd almost left her. Just thinking about it made her feel ashamed, even though it had been years before. It had been the last time she'd let her addiction get the better of her, and having him here now stoked her sense of déjà vu in ways she didn't care to explore too closely.

But she told him she was glad he was there, and the effort was so much that she began to cry just getting the words out. He said he was glad to be there, and didn't comment on the tears streaming down her face, but handed her a tissue. She didn't believe it, couldn't believe anyone would be glad to be there, but she didn't dare contradict him.

Jarvis went away and Rhodey came back. 

"You're sitting up," he observed cheerfully. "Good."

Natasha stuck her tongue out. "Next thing you know, I'll be crawling, and you'll have to baby-proof your home."

"Speaking of home..." Rhodey started, tentatively. "We need a plan for when they finally discharge you."

Natasha looked down. "I don't have anywhere," she said quietly. "All the assets I have left are frozen."

"All but one," Rhodey said pointedly.

Natasha gulped. "No," she said. "No, Jim, no, they--"

"Have plenty of extra space," Rhodey reminded her. "And there would be people there to keep--"

"An eye on me?" she asked dully.

"I was going to say, 'to keep you company,'" Rhodey replied, "but that, too. You want me to lie and pretend you don't need it?"

"I can't," Natasha said, shaking her head fiercely. "They hate me. They--"

"Nobody hates you."

"I quit. I mean, you quit, but you quit because I was too fucked up to do it myself. I disappeared, and I quit, and I acted like a massive _dick_ to-- to anyone who cared --"

Rhodey cleared his throat. "To Steve."

"Okay, yeah, fine," Natasha admitted. "But let's face it: he was bound to figure out what a fuckup I am sooner or later. Better he gets the idea now, right?” 

“You’re an idiot,” Rhodey informed her.

“I know,” she said, and pushed the little bell for more painkillers. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Later, after the doctor came in and raised the level of painkillers, she got sleepy, but she heard them talking in very hushed tones, and she assumed it was about her. 

When she woke up, it was apparently Jarvis’ shift again.

"Do you know the adage, Miss," Jarvis asked, the tone of his voice betraying nothing, as if he were asking her if she'd like toast with her tea, "’it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission?’"

Her stomach lurched; there was a twisting pain in her chest, a heat in her cheeks. "If the hospital pillow were any good, I'd throw it at you."

"I only made one call," he said slowly. 

“No,” Natasha moaned, shaking her head. She buried her face in the pillow. 

“He’s outside. He asked to see you when you woke up.” 

“No,” Natasha answered, her voice muffled, echoing around the pillow. “No, no, no, no, no.” 

“My dear child,” said Jarvis. “Shall we make a wager as to which of you is more stubborn?”

*******

Natasha made him wait five minutes while she sobbed into her pillow. Her body was too small, too weak, and even crying made her chest ache, the synthetic flesh around her heart even more noticeable as she keenly felt the point where the pain stopped and the numbness began. Whatever painkillers they were giving her were dulling her head more than they dulled the pain, and she couldn't-- _couldn't_ face Steve like that, not when she'd disappointed him more than anyone else.

So she cried, and then sucked in a breath, scrubbed at her cheeks, and tried to comb through her hair with her fingers. She tried to look at her reflection in the shiny metal of the hospital bed, in anything she could find, but they were all too distorted. She thought about getting up to look in the mirror in the bathroom, but it seemed so far, and she hadn't walked that far without help since before she'd gone through detox.

Steve walked in wearing uncharacteristically rumpled street clothes, looking a little grey-faced and less irritatingly-well-rested than usual. He was holding a box, a pretty gift box, wrapped in sparkly gold paper with a gold bow.

He was silent. He looked at her with the expression of somebody who’d just been told his dog died, and she watched his shoulders fall, his knees slump slightly, like he’d used up all his strength just walking through the door. 

“Hey, Stripes,” Natasha said.

“Hey, Sparks,” he answered, but he didn’t smile. He shuffled his feet and kept his terribly sad eyes on her. 

Jarvis was still holding the door. “Miss, shall I--”

“It’s okay, J,” she said. “You can go.” 

Steve twitched when the door clicked shut. “This was a bad idea,” he said. 

“Probably,” Natasha agreed. But she jabbed a thumb at the vacated chair by her bed. 

He sat down, and thrust the box at her with both hands. When she didn’t take it quickly enough, he placed it on the bed, next to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

She was about to tell him he shouldn’t have, she didn’t need a gift, he needn’t have gone to the trouble, but she stopped dead in her tracks, mouth slack at his apology.

“You-- _you’re_ sorry?” she asked. 

“Of course I am,” Steve said, looking hurt as he sat back in his chair. “Jesus, Sparks, you don’t really think I’m that much of an asshole, do you?” He rubbed at his face, ran his hands through his hair nervously, more nervously than Natasha was used to.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” she said, accusingly. 

“I walked out on you,” Steve said, his brow creasing. “Twice.” 

“I was wasted out of my mind and scared you away,” she pointed out. She was also pretty sure she'd vanished on him more than once, but her memory was fuzzy.

“I wasn’t scared, I was mad. Open your present.” He jabbed a thumb at the gold box. 

Her eyes pricked with tears. “You were scared, or you wouldn’t be trying to change the subject.” She sighed heavily, picked up the box, tugged off the ribbon, and stuck it in her hair.

“Nice,” Steve said, sheepishly, but with an approving nod. “Really makes the ensemble.”

“You could sell a couple photos to the tabloids,” Natasha offered. “Next week, all the girls’ll be wearing package bows and hospital gowns. You’ll be able to buy them at Bergdorf’s.”

 _Now_ Steve smiled. “I’ll get Jan on it.” 

Natasha winced, remembering the last time she'd seen Jan, how dismissive she'd been of Jan's concern. She slid a fingertip under one corner of the paper. “How is she?” 

“Jan?” Steve asked. “She’s fine. She-- I told her. I-- know, I know I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but after...I felt like she deserved to know. She's been worried. She wanted to come. Told me to give you a kiss for her.” 

She snorted. “Like that’s gonna happen.” 

Steve looked away.

She took the gold paper off, slowly, carefully, so that none of it ripped, folded it where it was already creased, and set it aside.  


Inside the box--- it was a shoebox, a used shoebox left over from a pair of men’s shoes (red sneakers, in a size 14, naturally)-- were a stack of used circuitboards, batteries, wires, resistors, some other bits and bobs, a pair of gloves, a pair of pliers, and a small, battery-operated soldering iron with a coil of ridiculously high-quality solder with a flux core. She hadn’t even realized Steve knew what solder _looked_ like. 

“I thought you might be getting bored,” Steve said. 

“What, no safety glasses?” she asked, as she tested the iron. 

He was quiet for a moment, then looked up, raising an eyebrow. “As if I don’t know you’ll never wear them?” 

She grinned. Grinning hurt, hurt her mouth, and her face, and realizing it made her eyes sting again. “Thanks. I’ll make you, uh…” She rifled through the box. “Something. You want a nightlight or a kitchen timer?” 

“I can’t get a light-up kitchen timer?” Steve asked. “I feel like I _at least_ deserve that.” 

Natasha pursed her lips, trying not to cry. “You’d better be-- better be on your best behavior for that.” 

Steve stayed for a couple of hours, far longer than Natasha had expected. They didn't talk, mostly, and Natasha could tell he was preoccupied. He flipped through her magazines, smiling as he saw her ball-point devil horns added to Obadiah Stane’s portrait on some stupid profile piece called “New World Order,” or some bullshit like that. 

Finally, he put down the magazine, put it back on the little side table. “Are we going to talk, or not?” he asked. 

“What?” Natasha had been smoothing her hair down, preparing to say goodbye. “About what?”

“About _this_ ,” Steve said, looking pained, his hands clasped tightly. “They said your heart’s a mess.” 

Natasha straightened up, steeling her jaw. “It's always been a mess. It used to be in worse shape. Where do they get off reciting my bill of health to you?” 

“They didn’t,” Steve said. “Rhodes did.” He stood up, pacing in a tight circle, as if he had too much energy to spare. “We’ve...been spending some time together lately. He called before Jarvis did.” 

“Well, fuck, all my friends are conspiring against me,” Natasha said irritably. 

“It’s your _heart,_ Sparks.” 

She crossed her arms over her lap and shrugged. “I can build a new one,” she answered. 

“Your kidneys aren’t in great shape, either.”

“I only need one of those.”

“And your liver?”

“They regenerate. Are you concerned about any other bits of my anatomy? Because my entire chest cavity’s been a mess for years, my lung capacity’s probably about seventy percent of what it should be for a woman my age, my bone density's shot, I’m pretty sure I’m infertile, and my foot is itching like hell.” 

Steve, who looked very much as if he’d been about to answer her, unruffled slightly, his shoulders relaxing, smiling that stupid, dopey half-smile that made Natasha melt in spite of herself. 

He walked over to the bed, gestured for her to make room. She slid over, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Which foot?” he asked.

She pointed.

He took her foot, peeled off her sock, and slid it into his lap and started rubbing it, slowly, gently pressing his thumbs into the arch. 

“ _Oh_ ” she murmured, shutting her eyes. 

He worked his fingers in circles, slowly moving them forward toward her toes. “Better?” he asked. His thumbs trailed up to the top of her foot, gliding over her toes, and with a simple, swift motion, he cracked the knuckles so they popped.

She squeaked, not expecting it. “Oh, god, yes,” she moaned, realizing with some irony that it sounded positively filthy. “Yes, yes, oh, _fuck_ , Steve.” 

“Now you’re just doing that on purpose,” Steve retorted, as he slid his hands up her ankle, working his fingers into the joint.

“I’m not! I swear I’m not,” Natasha said plaintively. “I just...oh, god, ah...I just haven’t been walking much the past couple days, and before that…” 

She felt a lump in her throat, bile rising from her belly. “You don’t want to hear about it.” 

Steve gave her a look, rolled the sock back onto her foot, then got to his feet, holding out an arm. “Come on,” he said. “Up.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me. Up. We’re going to take a walk.” 

“You did notice how much crap I’m hooked up to, didn’t you?” Natasha asked.

Steve raised an eyebrow and took her IV pole in one hand, then held out his arm again. “I know you’re capable of getting up without being dragged.”

She groaned but obeyed, holding onto his arm with both of her hands. Tugging her to a standing position was a joint effort. She wobbled, her feet unsteady and unsure, and Steve adjusted his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders. 

“Come on,” he said. “You can do it. You’re not that weak.” 

“You say that now,” Natasha said, leaning half of her weight against him. “Steve, I’m a mess.” 

“I know,” he assured her. 

“How far are we walking?” She tightened her grip on him.”You’re not taking me on a hike, are you?”

Steve pointed to the window, where a few light snowflakes danced in the air. A rather functional metal radiator cover, painted a sort of indecisive shade of beige, sat beneath it, venting hot air into the room. It was only five or six steps; Natasha half-ambled, half-wobbled her way there while Steve steered her _and_ her IV, and when she'd made it, patting the warm surface with her free hand, Steve scooped her up and seated her on the top of the radiator, where the metal-- warm, but not hot-- hit the back of her legs at odd points where the hospital gown opened. 

"Ow, fuck," she said. Her legs felt as if they'd been stabbed, pain shooting up from her ankles and down from her hips.

"Good work," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

She was startled by it; she pressed a finger to the spot, and looked up at him questioningly.

"From Jan," he said, matter-of-fact, as if challenging her to claim otherwise.

He looked away, over her shoulder, out the window, and rubbed at his forehead for a moment. “Damn it all to hell,” he said, in the resigned tone of someone who had no choice in his fate. 

She straightened up, breathed in expectantly, bracing herself for what came next: he’d excuse himself, say he had to leave, tell her it was too much for him. 

Instead he kissed her again, properly: chastely, but full on the lips, his fingers tangling in her unkempt hair. It caught her by surprise, and she whimpered before she regained composure. He stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Her heart was pounding; she shook her head violently, now even more convinced he’d turn for the door. “Don’t leave,” she begged, in a whisper. 

“What?” Steve asked, his brow wrinkling in confusing.

She reached for him, managed a handful of sweater. “Don’t leave me,” she said, her voice still soft, but louder than it had been. 

“I wasn’t going to.” Steve moved close, close enough that she could wrap her arms against his waist, lean her cheek against his chest, and she felt like a child clutching at her mother’s leg. 

“Don’t,” she begged again, the wool of his sweater a soft itch against her skin. He put his own arms around her shoulders, dropped his head, placing kisses in her hair. 

“I won’t,” Steve promised. “I won’t.”

*******

"You need to make him go home, Tash," Rhodey said, late the next day when he sent Steve down to the cafeteria. "He's been here for going on thirty-six hours."

"You've been here for _days_ ," Natasha point out. 

"Yeah, but I'm not living here. I've at least gone home to sleep and shower," Rhodey pointed out. "Tell him he can use my place if he doesn't want to muck all the way back to the Upper East Side. He needs a break. Sleep, at least."

"Go ahead. Tell him that. If you want to hear about how he can go days without sleep," Natasha answered with a sigh. 

"Doesn't mean he should," Rhodey said. “Considering what the past week was like for all of us, and him cutting his trip short to come back--” 

“Trip?” Natasha squinted. “Nobody said anything about a trip.” 

Rhodey shrugged. “He went to visit an old friend, or something, down in Virginia.” 

“He didn’t tell me,” Natasha said. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. She knew what Virginia meant; it meant someone who'd known Sharon. “You all have _lives_ out there.” She chewed on her lip, looked toward the window. She felt very small, very cold, and she tugged her blanket more tightly around her. 

“You do, too,” Rhodey pointed out. 

She shook her head. “What? I lost my company. I’ll never be Iron Man again. I don’t even have a bank account. I _sold plasma_ , Rhodey. Among other things.” 

Rhodey took a deep breath. “You remember the rest of us, a lot of us had nothing to start, right?” he asked. “Look at Steve, the next time you want to talk about losing things.” 

Natasha winced.

“Sorry,” said Rhodey. “Little harsh.” He shrugged an apology.

“No,” she said, chewing on a length of her hair. “You’re right. But I’m keeping you both here, when you’ve got-- Superhero things to do, saving the planet, I dunno, Steve probably has bridge and shuffleboard and whatever old people do.” 

“You two make up?” Rhodey asked, looking hopeful. 

Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe? Can’t you go explain to him why you dumped me, anyway? Tell him I’m not worth the agony and heartache?” 

Rhodey snorted.”Warning Steve away from anything? That’ll have the opposite of the intended effect.”

“So tell him I’m the greatest and we should get married and have tons of babies.” 

Rhodey coughed into his hand. “Ah. Hm. I think I’ll keep out of this one. I don’t want that kind of responsibility.” 

“You’re the _worst friend_ , Rhodey,” Natasha informed him. 

“I do my best,” he assured her.

*******

“I did it,” Steve said, walking into the room in a fresh shirt, smelling significantly more like soap and deodorant and less like the hospital. He held up his hands, turning them over, as if Natasha could inspect them. “I went home. I took a shower. I combed my hair.”

“Good boy, Stripes” Natasha teased. “Did you brush your teeth, too?” 

“Do you want to give me an inspection?” he asked, dropping a quick kiss on her lips and blowing at her nose. 

She grimaced, wrinkling her nose, but kissed him back, all the same. “Minty fresh,” she agreed. 

He was beaming as he dropped into the chair by the bed. “I cleaned out some of my stuff, too. Made some room for you. Hauled up your old dresser, emptied half the closet…”

“What?” Natasha asked, furrowing her brow at him. 

“I thought you’d want to--” Steve looked as confused as she did. 

She shook her head, slowly, eyes widening as she realized what he’d done. “No. Oh, no, Steve.” 

“Tash,” he said, pursing his lips. “You know they don’t want you to stay alone. The...you have to taper your medication; the steroids, and the painkillers, and they said--”

“I know what they said,” she snapped. “I’m an addict; someone else has to administer my medication for me like I’m a fucking baby.” 

Steve glared at her for a moment-- didn’t say anything, just glared.

“Did you even ask the others?” Natasha asked. “Do they know you want to bring me back there?” She bit her lip, raking her teeth over it, too hard. “Do they know?”

“I told Jan,” Steve said, a hesitant look in his eyes. “She’s in charge, so requests like that have to go through her, and she-- knew enough already, I didn’t think you would mind.” 

Natasha nodded. “I don’t want them to know, Steve,” she said, and her tone was pleading enough that she felt a little ashamed. 

He took a breath, gave her a pointed look. “You should tell them. They deserve that much.”

“I’m not ready,” she answered. “I can’t-- Steve, you don’t get it!” She flung her hands up. “You-- you tell everyone the truth about everything, even when it sucks, even when everyone would be happier with a lie. I can’t; I can’t--” 

Her voice cracked. He put a hand on her knee.

“Shh,” he said softly. “They don't need to know everything. We tell them we patched things up. You’re moving in with me. You--” 

“Did we?” she asked, and she realized how much she wanted it to be true, and how much she was certain it wasn’t. She reached for his hand. 

He wrapped his fingers around hers, and gave her hand a squeeze. “I think we--” 

There was a knock at the door. Steve withdrew his hand; she pulled hers back, as swiftly as if she were a teenager who’d just been caught making out in the poolhouse again. 

“Yeah?” she called, eyes on Steve. “Come in?” 

Rhodey shook out a brightly-colored square of tabloid newsprint. “Well,” he said brightly. “We got a nurse fired.” 

“What?” asked Steve and Natasha, almost in perfect unison. 

Rhodey held up the paper: there were photos of both Steve and Rhodey entering the hospital, an inset oval photo of Natasha that had to be at least six months old-- she weighed a good forty pounds more, her skin and eyes were bright, her hair was styled. She couldn’t remember what event she must have been at, but she recognized the necklace she’d pawned a couple of months ago, pawned for much less than it was worth because she’d pretended it was costume jewelry and not the real thing so they wouldn't ask questions.

“TASHA TWO-TIMING HER BOY TOYS?” read the headline. 

Rhodey waved it at her, close enough that she could snatch it up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she groaned, glaring at the cover.

“Stark’s Cry For Help,” it said below the headline. “Suicide Attempt! Overdose! What Next for Bankrupt Billionaire?” 

Steve reached for it. She let him take it. He frowned, tilting his head at the photo of himself carrying the little gold gift box. 

“At least I’m listed here as ‘Mystery Man?’” he said. 

“Get in line, Mystery Man,” said Rhodey. “I’m ‘Old Flame.’” 

“These are the worst public identities ever,” Natasha informed them.

“Nope,” said Rhodey. “Get out. I’m rechristening the suit. Old Flame.” 

She stuck out her tongue. 

“Unfortunately I think my costume is far too blatantly themed for ‘mystery’ to ever be an accurate title,” Steve observed. 

"What _does_ the A on his head stand for?" Rhodey intoned in a television announcer voice. "Will we ever know the key to the riddle?!"

“You wanna go back to being, what the fuck was it?” Natasha asked. “Nomad?” 

Steve waved a hand at her. “Nah, Jackie Monroe’s Nomad now.” 

“For real? What?” she asked, and he shrugged and nodded. “What the fuck, you have a sidekick and you didn’t tell me?”

“You were out of pocket,” Steve said dryly. “What’s the matter, jealous?” 

“A little,” she retorted. “Is she shirtless? Do you get to stare at her boobs all day?” 

"Yes," Steve said, expression schooled carefully blank. "That's precisely why I have a sidekick."

She made a face.

"I want a sidekick," said Rhodey. "Tash, come be my sidekick."

"I'm making myself a hairy man-suit with a droopy old-man cock," Natasha said cheerfully.

"You know I love old man cock," Rhodey retorted. "Bring it on, baby doll."

Natasha caught Steve's eye, noticed that he was frowning, that he had a faraway, wistful expression on his face. "Steve?" She asked. "Hey, Stripes, are you with us?" 

He rubbed at his face. "Yeah," he answered. "Uh. Yeah. Sorry."

Natasha looked him over, decided that she would have to ask him about sidekicks again later, find out if he was putting too much responsibility on himself, as usual. But for now, she snatched up his hand, casually, not at all tenderly, and looked back to Rhodey. "We were talking about what to do with me when I get out," she said. 

Rhodey and Steve shared a glance. "Yeah," Rhodey agreed. "So were we."

Natasha bristled. "Don't tell me you're deciding my future behind my back," she said, trying to be stern. "You both want me at the Mansion; you want me somewhere with ID badges and security cameras and--"

"I want you somewhere with _me_ ," Steve interrupted stubbornly, tightening his grip on her hand. "I can't help feeling like this is my fault, like if I'd been there every day, I would have noticed--"

"It's not your fault," Rhodey interjected. "It's Stane's, and Indries', and--"

"It's mine," Natasha corrected quietly, and she gave Steve's hand a soft pat. "Don't put the fucking weight of the world on you shoulders, Atlas."

Steve coughed. "Hello, you've reached the automated answering service for the kettle. If this is the pot, please press one."

Natasha made a face. "This is my mess. I fucked up. I've been here before; I know what Über does to me, and I fucking took it anyway. You-- you work hard, so fucking hard to stay clean, follow all the rules, do everything right, and life fucks you over anyway, why the hell should I keep denying myself something that makes me feel better, even if I know it's temporary?"

"But you know it'll make it worse in the long run, Sparks," Steve said, moving his hand up to stroke her wrist.

“You _don’t_ ,” she said, bitterly, and she lay back down on her bed, on her side, clasping his hand to her chest like it was a teddy bear. “You tell yourself you just need to take the edge off, you need something to make things a little easier. I’ve done it before, Steve. Been totally fine. Nobody knew. You tell yourself it’s going to be like that, you can manage it, that one time you couldn’t manage it was a fluke. Your whole _life_ goes to shit, even a half-hour-- fuck, even _five minutes_ feeling better sounds like a blessing.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t have done something to fix your fucking brain when you thawed out, if you could have? Stop seeing ghosts everywhere?” 

“Tash--” Rhodey started, but Steve shook his head. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have been tempted. I...I faked my own death.” 

“And didn’t bother _telling me_ ,” Natasha pointed out. 

“Like you didn’t bother telling me you built an evil robot that decided to impersonate you and send you to jail?” Steve asked. 

Natasha huffed, softly. “It wasn’t supposed to be evil when I _built_ it,” she pointed out. 

“There are way too many people around here who need to learn to stop building robots,” Rhodey observed. “We already talked about this, Tash. You can stay with me if you're not okay at the mansion.”

She felt Steve’s hand tense, and was certain he didn’t mean it, his facial expression so carefully schooled to not beg, not plead, not pressure her. But she still felt the slight shift of his fingers, their sudden rigidity. She squeezed his hand with both of hers, pressed it close to her sternum. 

“I want to stay with Steve,” she said. “If he’ll have me.” 

“It feels like we’re deciding custody,” Steve said, squeezing her hand back. “You know I’ll have you; I’ve been making my case for--” 

“I’m gonna be a wreck, Steve,” Natasha said. “This isn’t going to be some fun-cutesy play-house kind of thing.” 

“You say it like you want to change my mind,” Steve said sternly. “I know exactly what I’m getting into.”

“Do you?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

Steve’s jaw went hard, clenched. “You know I do.” 

And she realized that he was talking about his father, and all the breath left her at once; her chest hitched, and she shut her eyes to recover. 

She dropped his hand. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

*******

The first day out of the hospital was like walking into a dream. The air seemed heavy around her, thicker, harder to breathe. Her legs were stiff, even though she had been walking up and down the hall of her hospital floor as much as she could-- by herself, even, at the end, with Steve holding a cup of coffee hostage as her prize-- real coffee, outside coffee, that didn’t taste like sour wood and styrofoam cup.

Her head was light; it was hard to keep her eyes open, everything hurt. 

_Everything hurt_. 

The car ride to the Mansion was dark, claustrophobic, and oppressive after weeks in the bright, artificial lights of the hospital. Jarvis had come to pick them up in the big, black limousine, nearly unidentifiable from any other limo in the city. She was huddled in Steve’s arms, in Steve’s old, ratty sweatshirt, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot chocolate clutched in both hands. 

She didn’t drink it; she just felt the warmth seep through the cardboard, occasionally holding it up to her face to feel the steam rise. 

No one spoke. She didn’t look at Steve; she knew his eyes were on her. Instead she looked at Rhodey, sitting across from them both. She made faces at him, occasionally; he looked up from his phone to make faces back, almost as if he knew exactly when to look.

As they neared the mansion, Natasha could feel her heart rate increase, slowly at first, but it soon commenced to pounding, so loud that she was certain her friends could hear. Her hands squeezed her hot chocolate; she finally took a drink-- it was thick, too sweet, coated her throat.

“Don’t be home,” she mouthed, silently, only to herself. “Don’t be home, don’t be home.” The closer they got, the more terrifying the idea of facing everyone seemed. 

Jarvis turned off Madison, onto Seventy-First, and she felt herself tense with dread.

“I can’t do it,” she murmured, her throat dry, her voice a croak. “I can’t do it; I want to go back.” 

“No, Tash,” Rhodey said, and she saw the look of gratitude on Steve's face. “You can’t. You can’t go back.”

They turned south onto Fifth Avenue, and she saw the tiny, colored, glowing lights that decorated the exterior of the mansion, the huge pine wreath with the gilt bow, and another terrible realization struck her. 

“Christmas,” she observed. “Christmas, Christmas, fuck; when’s Christmas.” 

“Two weeks ago, Miss,” Jarvis answered from the front seat. “I had them leave the lights up, since you’d missed them. I knew you’d want to see.” 

"I missed Christmas," she whispered into Steve's shirt. 

He stroked her back. "It's okay," he said. "We'll still have Christmas."

She sucked in a gulp of breath. "I don't deserve Christmas," she told him. "I forgot Christmas. I don't have presents for anybody."

"You know, under the circumstances," Rhodey said, reassuringly, "I'm pretty sure we'll all let that one go."

They pulled up to the Mansion, Natasha shivering as Rhodey opened the door to the car. "You want me to come in?" He asked. "Carry your bags?"

"I have so many, I don't know how I’ll manage on my own," Natasha replied dryly. 

“I don’t know,” Steve interjected. “You’ve got an awful lot of prescriptions.” 

Rhodey snorted, and held out a small plastic bag from the drug store. “I got you a toothbrush.”

“Is that a hint?” she asked. 

“Sort of,” he answered, with a smirk. “Seriously, you want--”

Natasha looked to Steve, and then back at Rhodey, and squeezed at the bridge of her nose for a moment. “No,” she said, quietly. “Please don’t take it as--” 

She bit her lip. “I just...I want you there,” she said. “But I have to be a big girl about this.” 

He ruffled her hair. “Yeah, I gotcha. I’ll come by tomorrow. You need anything--” he looked to Steve. “Either of you. You have my number.” 

They kissed goodbye; Natasha had to bite her tongue to keep herself from asking him to stay, after all. Rhodey left her with her toothbrush (and deodorant, and four different medications), and Jarvis drove off to take him home.

Steve and Natasha stood outside the mansion, hand in hand, for a solid minute. 

She stared at the door, her fingers trembling so hard she was certain he could feel it.

She swallowed, hard, looking up at the pine boughs and Christmas lights.

"Ready?" Steve asked. 

"No," she said, taking out the newly-issued Avengers ID Steve had given her. (He'd been kind enough-- or Jan had been, she guessed, because Steve wouldn't have thought of it-- to use a year-old photo, from when she still looked pretty, still weighed enough, didn’t have hollows under her eyes.) "No, I'm not, but I'm going to fucking freeze to death out here."

The inside of the Mansion was blessedly Christmas-free-- and surprisingly Avenger-free. After her trepidation at the idea of seeing everyone. Natasha found herself slightly disappointed not to encounter any friendly faces. 

She remarked upon it, as they walked through the empty common area, everything seeming to reverberate more than usual.

"Jan," Steve explained. "We figured you might be more comfortable getting settled before seeing anybody."

Natasha started, an anxious twist in her neck. "She didn't--"

"Nah, she demanded a team bonding exercise," Steve explained. "They're all ice-skating. I pled 'fear of ice,'" he added cheekily. "Or that's what she was going to tell them."

She smiled, a little shyly, still uncertain in Steve's presence, and and squeezed his hand.

Steve's rooms were the same as ever-- neat as a pin in a way that suggested he kept his own house, and she rolled her eyes at his _competence_ when he wasn't looking. The furnishings, in warm hues, were comfortable and inviting and looked more to the taste of a middle-aged housewife than a young bachelor. 

"Sit down," Steve said, relinquishing her to the sofa. "Water?"

"Yeah," she answered, as he moved toward the kitchen. She curled up in a corner of the sofa, as small as she could make herself, leaning her head against the armrest. 

Her clothes were new. Steve had gone shopping, and not let Rhodey do it, which explained why they were so unapologetically unfashionable-- big, soft, wide-legged corduroys and a snuggly yellow sweater. Not gold, not Iron Man yellow, but a pale pastel that made her look even more washed-out and sallow than she already was. Knowing Steve, he'd bought it because it was warm and impossibly soft. They felt alien, and they were larger than they should have been; she'd dropped two sizes in the past few months, and Steve didn't entirely understand women's clothing sizes to begin with, so she was swimming in fabric. 

Her underwear was her own, the same underwear they'd admitted her with, plain cotton panties with a frayed waistband and a rip in the crotch, because Steve had forgotten underwear. She didn't have a bra at all.

He came back with a glass. She tried to work up a smile; it was an Iron Man collectible glass she'd gifted him, and she knew he'd selected it on purpose. She swirled the water around, watching it ride up the sides of the glass, and then took a long drink, gulping down most of it in one go. 

Steve was standing in front of her, shifting back and forth on his feet and looking very uncertain. 

"You want to sit?" she asked. "Come on Steve, you're making me nervous, staring at me like I'm a lost kitten."

"Can I?" he asked.

She patted the seat beside her; he dropped into it almost instantly. Again, he hesitated, so she leaned into him, pressed her cheek to his chest. 

"I'm not fragile, either," she said. "Come on, Steve; what's the matter? You decide you don't want me here?"

"No," Steve said, wrapping an arm around her. "God, no." He frowned, looking around the room as if something wasn't quite right. "It's just...you know this isn't contingent on anything, right? You don't-- we don't-- I fixed up my studio, turned it into a bedroom, in case--"

He looked over his shoulder, at the door to the studio room, and back at her.

She shook her head, crawled into his lap. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am so, so sorry. And I’m just worried-- No, I’m not worried I’ll mess this up, because I already _did_ mess it up, and--”

“No,” Steve said.

“Yes,” she insisted. “Let me talk. I’m scared you’re going to hate me, after this. I already kind of hate me. I’m not-- I’m not who I was a year ago.”

Steve pushed her hair back from her face, looking at her intently, and raised a finger, touching the hollow beneath her eye. “Sparks, you are every bit who you were a year ago. They always say, if you want the best, the most fantastic, the biggest, the most spectacular, you go to Natasha Stark. And I have never seen such a spectacular crash and burn in my life.” 

“Ha, ha,” she intoned. 

He smiled. “It’s true. You always do everything to its utmost. Self-destruction included.” 

“I don’t think that’s something to be proud of, Stripes. I don’t--"

He ringed his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and he pressed his cheek to her ugly yellow sweater. "I love you, Sparks," he said quietly. "I love you; I love you."

"You shouldn't," she said, her tone abrupt, but her fingers found his shoulders, her nose buried itself in his hair. 

"Remember when you asked me to marry you?" Steve asked. He hugged her more tightly, clinging to her like she was a child's toy, his biceps firm against her waist.

"Yeah, and you promptly panicked?" Natasha asked. 

"I think that's one way of putting it," Steve said, clearing his throat. 

"You got cold feet?" Natasha tried.

"Can we come up with--"

"You freaked out?"

"A more diplomatic way of describing it?"

"You shit yourself?"

"Ha." Steve straightened up. He loosened his grip on her, letting her sit back so they could look each other directly in the eye. "I keep thinking about it."

Natasha grimaced. "Jesus, Steve, don't do that."

"I keep thinking," he repeated. "And thinking about how I wasn't over Sharon, how I was convinced that would always come between us, how I couldn't be _good_ to anybody else when I was so...overwhelmed. By loss, I guess."

She studied his face; where the corners his mouth usually turned up, they drooped, and his eyes had a haggard look to them, so uncustomary on his face. 

"Funny how it happens to you and you don't turn into an addict," Natasha said bitterly. 

"I _can't_ turn into an addict," Steve pointed out. "Anyway, my point-- my point is that if I hadn't been in such bad shape-- we would have gone through with it, and then-- well, I wouldn't give up on my wife, would I?"

"I'm not your wife," Natasha pointed out. She folded a hand over her forehead, rubbing at her temples. 

He reached for her hand, pried it away gently, held it to his own face, sandwiching it between the heat of his palm and the fine stubble of his afternoon beard. "But you could be," he said.

"Steve, you're doing this ass-backward," Natasha said. "You're supposed to dump the girl when you find out she's a filthy druggie."

"You know I don't like doing things by the rules," he answered. He raised an eyebrow at her: it was a question, a challenge.

She kneaded her thumb against his cheek. "No, Steve," she said. "I-- I've gotta work on being a human being again first."

"Second?" Steve asked, bumping his forehead against hers. 

"I don't know," she answered. "But you're somewhere in the top five, if you can live with that."

"I always like having room for improvement," he assured her.

*******

Steve ordered pizza. Extra cheese pizza with pepperoni, meatballs, and sausage.

She hadn't had good pizza in months. She'd had cold, discarded pizza, with grease welling up on the surface of the stiff crust, or limp ninety-nine cent slices with crusts that sagged, dripping too-watery sauce. She hadn't had this, not pizza with cheese that burnt the roof of her mouth, that stretched in strings when she sank her teeth into it. Not pizza with fresh tomato, garlic, and basil, or homemade meatballs, or semolina dusting the bottom of the crust. 

Usually she only scarfed two or three slices, while Steve ate the lion's share, but tonight she was ravenous, putting down five, then six, before Steve laughed and shrugged and ordered another pie. He brought out a half-gallon tub of ice cream, too, and they ate with spoons straight from the carton until it was demolished.

"Sorry," Natasha said, scraping up the last bite. "I'm gonna eat you out of house and home."

"Not possible," Steve assured her. "The mansion's inedible."

"Corny, Stripes."

He gave her an innocent look. "I'm fattening you up for the slaughter, anyway."

They slept that night like they always had in the past, as if distance and time hadn't come between them, Natasha splayed out, half her body slung across Steve's chest, her left leg tangled with both of his, his arm around her shoulders, his hand wound in her hair. 

It was comfortable, warm, reassuring, but she also found a voice in the back of her head telling her this was wrong, that she was falling into old routines to cover the pain, that she was replacing drugs with Steve, that it could be just as easy for her to let him coddle her, let him keep her protected in a nest.

In the afternoon, Natasha had had the first bath she'd had in longer than she could remember, all perfume and bubbles and scalding hot water and lather in her hair. Lying in the tub, sweet-smelling steam rising, she shut her eyes and sank until only her face was above the water, feeling the way the surface tension pressed at her skin. Steve had offered to help, but she'd wanted to be alone, actually alone with herself without any hospital equipment attached to her, with her new, clear presence of mind that was slowly returning now that the Über had left her system. She had let him draw the bath and walk her to the tub, but made him leave her once she was safely deposited in the bathwater. 

But now, ten minutes in, everything hurt. Her abdomen, her legs, her hips, her head, her _chest_ \-- the pain in her chest was the worst she'd felt in years, so stifling that it made it hard to breathe.

"Steve!" She yelled, her voice breaking more harshly than she expected, leaving her too breathless for one word. "STEVE!"

He was at her side like a shot, staring with wide, frightened eyes. "Sparks?!"

Her vision swam; the echo of his voice ricocheted around her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I need," she managed, in a gasp. 

"Okay," he said. "Okay, okay, let me..." His arms were around her; he lifted her out of the tub.

"I have to rinse my hair," she murmured weakly into his shoulder. 

He was silent for a moment. "Okay," he repeated. He sat her down on the fluffy bath mat, pulled the showerhead down on its hose, turned on the water and ran it over his own hands for a minute until, with a satisfied nod, he let the water stream, warm, over her head.

She pulled her knees to her chest, her joined aching in complaint as she moved. Steve toweled her dripping hair off with a huge, soft blanket of a towel that she suspected must be new. 

"All right?" He asked. 

She nodded. 

"You need a pill?"

She nodded again.

The prescription painkillers didn't ease the pain as well as the intravenous drip had at the hospital, and certainly not as well as Über.

"I hate this," she said, wrapped in her big towel, as Steve dropped a cup of tea down in front of her. "I hate...I'm helpless."

"We're all helpless, sometimes," Steve answered. 

"Not you," she pointed out.

"I was stuck in a hunk of ice for decades," Steve pointed out.

"But you didn't-- you didn't need your-- anybody to bathe you." She groaned, and sucked in the steam from the tea before taking a sip, letting it scald the tip of her tongue. "What?" She asked. "Boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? Friend? We haven't really--"

Steve gave her a hopeful look, then shrugged. "We don't have to, Sparks. Like you said. Get human first."

Rhodey came by for lunch, _with_ lunch, and they played cards for a while, betting chocolate chip cookies until Natasha had a pile of cookies so high it would have made even Steve sick. 

"You see this?" She asked, taking Rhodey's last cookie and chomping on it. "This is what I'm going to do to motherfucking Stane."

Rhodey grinned. "Good," he said. "Nice to see a little of the old Titan-of-Industry Tasha back with us."

"I'm going to crush him," she said. "I'm going to crush his cookies and then crush him."

*******

After Rhodey left, Jan stopped by. With flowers, like Natasha was any old invalid.

She didn't comment on the way Natasha looked, on her yellowish skin or her gaunt face or too-thin frame; instead, she kissed her on the cheek and handed her roses.

Natasha had to measure her breaths to keep from crying. 

"How are you feeling, dear heart?" Jan asked. "Better?"

She talked like Natasha had never abandoned them. 

"A little," Natasha answered. "It comes and it goes. I-- I'm sorry," she said. "For being an ass when... when you and Steve tried to..."

"Forgotten already," Jan assured her. "This is...I hate to say it, but this isn't purely a social visit. The team has a right to know there's a guest in their living quarters. Not that they would object-- and not that I'd have any patience for them if they did-- but you have an ID, and presumably you're going to want to leave Steve's place, eventually. I hope."

Natasha swallowed, and nodded. "What do you want to tell them?"

"That you're our guest, and you've been ill, and you're recuperating?" Jan suggested. "You're not contagious, so whether you want to tell them what you've been ill _with_ is up to you."

She could do that. She hoped she could do that. "Right. I can do that." She worried at her fingers. 

"Would you like to join the rest of us for dinner?" Jan asked.

Natasha chewed on her lip, looked nervously at Steve. "No," she said. "Not yet."

Jan asked if there was anything else she could do, made some pleasant small talk, gave Natasha a long look up and down and said she would bring back some clothes that _fit_.

Steve walked Jan into the hall, and Natasha knew they were talking about her just outside the door. She was almost too exhausted to care. The sheer exertion of talking to Jan had made her drowsy. 

She didn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa, but it was dark out when she woke up.

*******

The days started to blur together. She ate, slept, brushed her teeth occasionally, when she remembered.

Clint came to see her. 

“I’m married,” he told her, with no preface whatsoever. 

“Yeah?” she asked, not telling him that she already knew, and listened to him wax poetical about this girl he’d met. 

“She’s a _scientist_ , Tash,” Clint said excitedly.”You’ll love her.”

She sent him on his way with a promise, yes, absolutely, that she’d meet Bobbi for lunch, sometime soon, as soon as she was feeling better. 

Jan came back with clothing that fit, beautifully made clothing that Natasha was certain Jan had had tailored for her, and she frowned,troubled,as she saw how very small everything was, how narrow the shoulders were.

Rhodey visited every day, brought her pastries, and comic books. 

“I’m thinking about going out to California,” he said. She watched the way he pursed his lips, eyed her, as if waiting for her reaction.

“For vacation?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer. 

He shook his head. “I’ve been talking to some friends, about starting a company.”

She sucked in a breath. “Well, if you’re looking for an investment, you’re shit out of luck. I’ve got...however much change Steve left in his sock drawer. I could sell my meds,” she added cheerily, raising an eyebrow.

“I think we’ll be okay, Tash,” Rhodey assured her. “Though if you find yourself with a sudden windfall of cash…”

She blew him a kiss. “You’ll be the first person I give away my hard-won fortune to.”

And all the time, Steve was there. The first few days, he hovered so much that she started to expect him to be just behind her, looking over her shoulder, never more than a few feet away. She started snapping at him, unnecessarily, and he took it so much in stride that it only made her more frustrated. 

The first time he had to go to a team debrief, he set her up on the sofa, with blankets, a jug of water, a cup of tea, a little basket of snacks, two crossword books and the remote for the television set, like she was a child home sick from school.

She got up as soon as he left. She set his studio back up; the work was agonizing; her muscles were not in any way prepared to move furniture; she wound up in a pile on the floor and had to drag herself back to the sofa before Steve got back.

And _then_ he shouted, just once, before he reined in his temper, but he was still visibly flustered, red-faced, sitting at the far end of the sofa and looking deliberately at the wall. 

“You could have hurt yourself,” he said. 

“But I didn’t,” Natasha pointed out.

“But you could have.” He went into the kitchen, came back with her medication, counted out her pills and handed them over without making eye contact.

“You need your space back,” she said. “We’re going to drive each other nuts if we’re both just sitting on the fucking couch like this. I can’t-- it’s bad enough I can’t _do_ anything; I’m gonna go batshit if it feels like I have a minder.” 

“You _do_ have a minder,” Steve pointed out. “You need a minder.”

“I need _help_ ,” she snapped. “Not a fucking nanny.” 

Steve threw his hands up. “You already proved you can’t--” 

And then he snapped his mouth shut, ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I didn’t--”

Natasha crossed her arms over her chest, jutted her chin out stubbornly. “And that’s why you need your studio, Stripes.”

*******

The call to Assemble came in the early hours of the morning, before the sun was up, before even Steve was up, and the alarm blared through the house, urgent and demanding. Natasha moaned and tugged a pillow over her head.

Steve pressed his hand softly to the place between her shoulder blades. “Sparks,” he said. “I’ve gotta go. You want me to call--” 

She let him lift the pillow from her face, sat up, and looped her wrists around his neck, giving him a kiss. “I’ll be okay,” she assured him. “It’s like a test run.” 

“No moving furniture,” he said, in a warning tone. He sounded like he actually believed she might move more furniture.

“Dammit,” she said. “You figured out my plan.” 

He kissed her back. “No. Moving. Furniture,” he repeated, turning around to fetch his uniform. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Natasha said, as she wriggled back below the blankets, fitting herself into the much-warmer spot Steve had vacated. “I love you, too, Honeypie.” 

He stopped, in the middle of tugging his shirt on, completely still, and turned, looking back at her-- _staring_ at her. 

She blinked. “What?” she asked. “What’s--” 

“I love you.” 

“All...right?” Natasha replied, frowning at him. “I love you. Hurry your ass up; I’m going back to sleep.” 

He watched her for a few moments longer, before she waved him away. He nodded, and went back to dressing, while she shut her eyes and listened to the noises of him moving around the room. 

When he kissed her cheek goodbye, she pretended to be asleep.

*******

She woke up late, too late, afternoon sun streaming in the windows just at the level where it hit her eyes.

She groaned, blinked, and felt every cell of her body screaming in agony. 

“Fuck,” she whimpered. She looked at a clock; it was two in the afternoon; she’d missed two doses of how many pills, she wasn’t sure. 

She could get to the kitchen, even if the pain behind her eyes made her vision blurry, even if her hips hurt so much that she was certain her legs would collapse beneath her.

She made it to the bedroom door before she decided she would be better off crawling the rest of the way. 

When she reached the kitchen, she pushed herself up using a stool, and looked around, thoughtfully, trying to determine where Steve might be keeping her pills. They weren’t in any the drawers.

One of the cabinets stuck. She tried the door again, tugging on it with one hand while she supported herself on the countertop. 

It wouldn’t open. She tugged again, with the same results. 

“I can’t believe,” she grumbled. “He fucking _childproofed it_.” 

It took her a few minutes with a butterknife to take the hinges off the door, and get to the bottles inside. She frowned, squinting at the labels to check her dosages, and measured out the right number of pills. She took out enough for two doses, though she wasn’t sure if she should skip or double up.

She knew she was supposed to take some of the pills with food, but even her _hands_ were hurting, she couldn’t envision herself being able to find something to eat, and resolved to take the medication, wait a few minutes, and then see if she was capable of scavenging for something. 

She swallowed her pills dry, no water, and sat, in her underwear on the kitchen floor, with her eyes shut, the taste of medicine in her mouth, waiting for the painkillers to kick in.

Five minutes passed, then ten-- what she _estimated_ to be five and then ten, because time seemed not to pass, nothing was feeling better, her peripheral vision had gone dark and she felt as if she were in a tunnel, her head pounding so insistently that for a moment, she was nearly certain she was hearing an actual sound coming from outside.

She could feel her pulse, thrumming loudly, twitching in her eyeball; she tried to blink it away, but her eyes began to sting, and then water profusely. 

She took the second set of pills, willing them to work. 

When there was still no change, when her legs and arms hurt so much that she couldn’t even crawl, she started to cry, tears falling freely from her eyes, her mouth so dry that she licked them away and the salt teased at her parched throat. 

She reached in the still open cabinet, felt at the shapes of the bottles until she was sure she’d found the painkillers, took out another dose, and then a fourth, swallowed them, choking as she swallowed, her throat too dry for the pills to go down easily. 

Her head felt light; she was dizzy, so dizzy that her vision swam in and out, from white to black to flashes of color that didn’t exist in the chrome-and-blue kitchen. She pressed a hand to her head. 

Her stomach lurched. 

“Fuck,” she croaked. She wrapped her arms around her middle, the pain tremendous, sharp jabs at her stomach, but she hadn’t eaten since the night before, so when her stomach started contracting, and her entire body started heaving violently, nothing came out; but it exhausted her, until she couldn’t sit anymore, and she curled up in a ball, cheek to the cool tiles of the floor.

“SPARKS!” 

Steve’s voice rang frantic in her ears; she must have fallen asleep. Her belly felt leaden; her chest was on fire, she reached for the glass of water on her night table before she realized that she was on a hard, cold floor. 

“Steve?” she whimpered. Her voice came out as nothing, as a wisp, her throat was tight, swollen, and she wanted to cough, but she couldn’t. Her hands wouldn’t move; they were tingling with pins and needles. 

Without warning, he snatched her up, and she was in his arms. “What happened?” he asked. “Tash, what did you--how many did you take?” 

“Nnn…” She couldn’t get out the words. “Two of everything. Four of the--”

Now she coughed; it was too much. 

“Everything?” Steve asked, his voice trembling. “You’re not-- how long ago; we need to call--You’re not supposed to take them all _together_ , you--” 

“I didn’t know,” she said to the star on his chest, to the battered blue scales of his armor. “ _Steve_ , I didn’t. I--” 

She looked up at his face and clutched at his shoulder; he held her more tightly. His cowl was pushed back; he had a dark bruise on his cheek, a swollen lip. 

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Fine. Don’t-- Sparks. Sparks. Are you lucid? Do we need a doctor?”

He deposited her on the bed, watching her intently, fear in his eyes. He pulled off a glove, held up a hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

She squinted. “I can’t see,” she admitted, her voice cracking. 

“At all?” he asked, his voice pitched high, panicked. 

“No, no, it’s...just blurry. Blurry and…” She started crying again, and silently cursed herself for being unable to control her tears. 

“I- I’m sor-- sorry, Steve,” she said, trying to wipe the tears off her face, barely able to stammer out the words. “I didn’t-- it hurt. It wasn’t on pur--” 

He sat down next to her, wrapped his arms around her, protectively, as if he were building a house around her, as if his arms were walls, and pulled her close so she could lean against him.

She collapsed, exhausted, and wept.

"Marry me," Steve said, softly, so softly that Natasha couldn't be sure of the words. 

She butted her head against his chest, choking back tears with an ugly sound, mucus dribbling from her nose, crusting on her philtrum. She wriggled her arms, a halfhearted, not entirely earnest attempt to escape. 

"Don't do this," she whispered. "Don't keep asking me."

He tightened his grip, held her arms to her sides, and she began to sob again, sobbing until she retched. 

Steve cleared his throat, and smiled, the softest, warmest smile. She thought, bitterly for a moment, that she hated him, for being able to smile at her like that now. 

He pushed her hair back from her face, kissed her on the forehead, and rearranged the pillows so she was propped up comfortably. She was still sobbing, choking on the snot dripping down her throat, her eyes so sore even the thought of opening them hurt.

And then he was gone. Without the pressure of his arms or the heat of his body, she felt cold, so cold that her teeth started to chatter. She pulled her knees to her chin, tucked her hands into the warm fold of flesh between her thighs and her calves.

She wasn't sure how much time passed, certainly not much, but everything felt drawn out, exploded. His fingers tangled in her hair; he tipped her head back and held a cool glass to her lips. 

She sucked at the rim of the glass. 

"Come on," Steve said. He dragged her hand up, so slowly, to hold onto it. "You're dehydrating yourself."

She gripped the glass, first with one hand, then with both, and sipped. The coldness of the water hit the back of her mouth, and her throat tightened, but she swallowed feebly. 

"Good," Steve said softly. He kicked off his boots, climbed back onto the bed, the mattress shifting with his added weight, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Now, again."

She obeyed, mechanically almost, as if her body responded to his words before her mind could process them. The cold water pooled in her stomach, where it sat heavily, and she retched again.

He stroked her hair. "Do you need to puke?"

She shook her head. "It's just water." Her voice was hoarse, scratchy, foreign.

"Do you need a tissue?"

She nodded, and exchanged her glass for a square of tissue. She wiped it over her nose and mouth, then blew hard, until the tissue was completely sodden. 

Steve exchanged it for another and another, until the night table was littered with tissues, and Natasha's eyes and nose were mostly dry. He brought her another glass of water; this time she kept her eyes open, watched him depart with the empty glass, watched the sliver of his body through the bathroom door, listened to the rush of the tap

She took the glass on her own this time, gulped heavily, drained nearly all of it in one long drink. 

And then her stomach heaved and sent bile-tinged water up into her mouth. 

Steve took the glass away, put his hand on her shoulder. "You think you can eat something? Soak up all that water?"

Natasha's stomach lurched again, and she ran for the bathroom, on legs so weak they felt like spindles, felt like they would slide out from under her at any minute.

She made it to the toilet barely in time, dropped to the floor, the cold tiles hard beneath her bare legs.

She vomited up water, once, twice, and then rested, panting, with her forearms on the toilet seat, letting spittle fall from her lips as she waited, expectantly, for her stomach to rebel again.

She felt Steve's hands on her shoulders, in her hair, tucking it back away from her face, and finally, warm, soft lips on her neck.

" _Stop_ ," she murmured plaintively, waving him away. 

He didn't reply, but she could hear him breathe in, expectantly, and then get to his feet, withdrawing to somewhere a few steps behind her. 

She let herself breathe, and when she was certain her stomach wasn't going to rebel, she turned around, but she didn't quite look at him. She turned her attention to the floor, letting herself see him as a silhouette in her peripheral vision.

"You're supposed to be angry," she said. "Why aren't you angry?"

"I am angry," he answered quietly. "But you're in no state to address that."

She sniffled, and wiped her nose on her bare forearm, the streaks of snot glistening on her skin like snails’ trails. "I'm in no state to address that, but marrying you is fine and dandy?"

"Yes," Steve answered stubbornly.

"I'm a _mess_ ," Natasha pointed out. "Look at me. Me, not-- whatever you see in your head."

"I'm looking," Steve said.

"You don't want this."

"No, I don't. I want you to be...better." 

"You can't fix this, Steve," she said bitterly. "You can't just try to elbow your way in and--"

"I don’t want to fix it," Steve answered. He dropped to the floor, leaning back on his hands. "I want to give you what you need so you can fix it yourself."

"I don't need _marrying you_ ," Natasha snapped, and she immediately felt guilty when she saw the way he cringed away from her.

But he straightened up, his expression fierce, his shoulders squared. " _I_ need it, Sparks. I need to know that if something happens to you, they'll _call_ me, that if you show up in a-- in a hospital--" 

The way he said it, she was certain he almost said "morgue."

She tugged her knees up to her chin. 

She'd had marriage proposals before, marriage proposals back as far as she could remember, back to the night some aged oil magnate had offered to buy her from her father and Howard had broken a wine glass over the man's head. Marriage proposals in moonlight, on the beach, over dinner, in board rooms and offices and laboratories, after sex, on an airplane, in a hot air balloon, in a virtual reality simulation, once very awkwardly and famously on the jumbotron at a baseball game, where she’d nearly said yes just to spare the otherwise very sweet boy the embarrassment of being turned down on national television, but ended up refusing him if only so she could avoid the scandal of another round of tabloid articles labeling her a cheater when she inevitably broke it off later. 

She'd had men swear their undying love to her, tell her that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, promise her mansions and cars and diamonds and multinational corporations and once a small island kingdom.

This was by far the least glamorous, the most miserable: here, half-naked on the bathroom floor, various body fluids crusted on various patches of skin, in underwear with a hole in the crotch and elastic so worn it barely stayed up, feeling like a spent shell. And there was Steve, not offering her a damn thing, probably not even a ring, asking her to marry him because he wanted to make sure someone told him if she died.

She rubbed at her cheek. "I'll get the legal paperwork together, make you my next of kin." 

She finally looked at his face. He looked away. 

“That’s not quite what I was after,” he said.

“Well, it’s probably better than my butler,” she pointed out. "Who the hell knows if I even _have_ a butler anymore, really? Everybody _else_ left me."

“Jarvis came to the goddamn hospital for you, Sparks,” Steve said, and there-- there was the rage she expected, his eyes flashing, his cheeks hot. “Nobody left you. You left _us_.” 

She bit her lip. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Because I didn’t want you to see me like _this_ , moron. I didn’t want to hear your fucking lectures--”

“I haven’t lectured you!” Steve exclaimed, and there was something so broken, so hurt in his tone, in the way his brow dipped, in the question in his eyes, that Natasha felt a lump form in her throat. “I’ve tried, Sparks-- I’ll keep trying, but I--”

“And I didn’t want you to end up like this,” she added quietly. “We-- I’m holding you hostage.”

Steve went quiet. He fumbled at his uniform, removed his shirt, then his pants, sat back down next to her in his tee shirt and underwear. It was somehow more comfortable, less intimidating than having Captain America act disappointed in her.

“No,” Steve said, as he put a hand back on her back. “I chose this. I-- you’re the one trapped here. I hate leaving you, knowing you can’t go…” 

“And you have things out there you need to do,” Natasha answered. She leaned against his side, and he rested his cheek against her head. “You can’t worry about whether I’ll take the wrong pills if you have to fucking save the world.” 

Steve inhaled sharply. “I want you saving the world _with_ me,” he said. “I need you there, and you’re not.” 

She wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling her head up beneath his chin. “I can’t be there, Stripes. I want be there, too, but not right now. I don’t--Everything hurts. All the time. It’s not gonna be soon.” 

“I know,” he answered, slouching, defeated. “I’m sorry.” 

He stroked her hair, gently. “I just don’t know what to do now.” 

She nodded. “Neither do I,” she answered. “But Rhodey’s moving out to California. I think maybe I should go, too.” 

She felt him tense, felt his arm tremble where it rested against her shoulder. “Yeah?” he asked, his tone careful, more casual than it should have sounded.

She wriggled back,wincing as her joints complained, and looked him in the eye, intently. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, I haven’t asked him yet, but I know he’ll say yes.” 

He shut his eyes, swallowing. “How long?” he asked.

“I dunno,” she admitted. “‘Til I’m back on my feet? Literally and figuratively?” 

“Okay,” Steve said. His breath was short, shallow, as if he were trying to modulate it. “Okay, I can--” 

“Listen to me,” Natasha said. She caught his chin with her hand, kissed him on the cheek. “I need to get better. I need to get better so the next time you do a dumbshit thing like propose marriage, I can say yes.” 

He looked startled, then smiled, hesitant. “That _almost_ sounds like a yes, Sparks.” 

“It’s not a no.” 

“Yeah?” Steve asked, wonderingly. 

“Let’s put it this way,” Natasha answered. “Everybody else wants me when I’m billionaire hosting a charity ball. Nobody else is crazy enough to want me when I’m puking in the bathroom.” 

“They’re idiots. You’re beautiful when you’re puking in the bathroom,” Steve replied, earnestly, and kissed her nose.

“Fuck off, Stripes,” retorted Natasha. “Just remember to bring a goddamn ring when you come to visit.”


End file.
